


a bouquet of clumsy words

by allisonmartined



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 06:15:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allisonmartined/pseuds/allisonmartined
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They live on the edge of the stars, somewhere between travelling the universe and their little house in England.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a bouquet of clumsy words

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by ee cummings and my good, good friend rachel.

She smiles, small and liquid, into the apex (the soft-silk slope) of his neck and shoulder.  Her smiles are different here, now, or maybe it’s him, maybe it’s how his nerves and the optical portion of his brain sees her lips, the way they shape those slightly crooked sliver-of-a-moon smiles.

Her hair though.

Splashed, splayed, spread across their mountain of pillows, golden star pieces arranged like rays that wrap around his fingers and dance across his shoulders and the recesses of his face.

She straddles him, thighs and knees around his hips, her weight steadily against his, hair in a messy bun, wearing his shirt that he bought on a whim when he got the idea that he needed a job, of all things.  Only one button is closed and he can slide his hands across warm, golden skin and it feels like dreaming and peace and warm muffins and her name on his tongue.

She brings it up in the TARDIS they built out of dreams and memories and the particles of time resting in their skin.  _Do you miss it_ , she says, hands around a warm tea cup, shoulders wrapped in his jacket.  He can’t imagine ever wanting anything else.  She’s looking at her feet, at her toes, at the bright orange nail polish she bought at the swing market in 2085.  He cracks his knuckles, thinks about saying something cheeky that would make her eyes spark.  But instead he sighs.  _Miss is the wrong word_ , he says, _it’s weird sometimes, incomplete, being human and not timelord.  Earth and not Gallifrey.  These particular, singular, feet have never stepped foot on that planet, have never fought in a time war, it isn’t in my hands or in my skin.  But it’s there in my memories, sparks of that life.  But I don’t miss it, I don’t wish for it, or seek it.  It’s just a dislodged piece.  A dream barely remembered._ She looks at him, a tiny smile.

They live on the edge of the stars, somewhere between travelling the universe and their little house in England.  She keeps a journal of all their adventures, a little blue thing wrapped in string, keeps it behind the headboard of their bed, fills it with starlight and endless spaces. 

Their friends are an odd bunch, ages and personalities jumbled.  They both like people, the sounds of voices and laughter in the air above them.  They drink wine and beer and watch bad science fiction.  The movement of them, reminds him of travelling.

It’s good, like the space between dreaming and wakefulness.  He never wants it to end.


End file.
